Bronze Pen (9781439156650) (3 page)

S
HE DID GO BACK, OF COURSE, BUT NOT
right away since Monday was the beginning of another school week. A week in which Audrey, as always, had to hurry home so her father wouldn't have to be alone any longer than absolutely necessary. It would be best, according to Dr. Richards, if someone could be there constantly to call for an ambulance if John were to suddenly become unconscious. But with Hannah working and Audrey in school, and with no money to pay for a daytime nurse, that wasn't possible. So Hannah worked the late shift at her office, and by taking an early class and skipping study hall, Audrey was able to get home by one o'clock. That left only about two hours in the middle of the day when John Abbott had to be alone.

On Tuesday the weather was warm and dry, and on her way home on the city bus Audrey looked out toward the hills and pictured herself scrambling up the trail that led
to the cave. It just might be possible today to get away for a little while when her father was busy reading. She had begun to imagine what it would be like and what she might see when a different scene began to take over. The same one that had so often oozed out of the dark corners of her mind in the long months since her father's heart attack. A homecoming scene in which she ran into the house calling out,
Dad. Dad, I'm home.
And there was no answer.

So every day all that week, just like every week, from early afternoon until her mother got home at almost seven, Audrey was with her father, reading to him or listening to him read, playing chess or checkers, or simply doing her homework while he read the paper. For a while there had been some TV watching. Not much, because they both preferred reading, but none at all lately because the ancient TV wasn't working well, and all the new ones were too expensive.

It was still early on Friday afternoon when, on her way to the kitchen to make some tea, Audrey stopped in a spot of sunshine that was spilling in through the dining room window. Paused long enough to stare up toward the distant hillside, trying to follow the trail with her eyes and once again letting her mind wander back to the strange things that had happened last weekend. Back to the strangely demanding duck and the old woman who could not only read minds, but somehow knew how to make people reveal their deepest secrets.

She was still looking out the window when she heard her father say her name. Just, “Audrey?” but with a questioning rise at the end, and when she turned to look at him, his smile and raised eyebrow did ask a question before his expression faded into something that looked like an apology.

And then John Abbott said it out loud. “I'm so sorry about you having to be cooped up in here with me every afternoon. I'll bet you could find a lot of exciting things to do if you didn't have to rush home to babysit your old man. Things like you and Debra used to do, for instance.”

Audrey smiled and shrugged. “It's okay,” she said. “I don't mind.” But she did mind, at least she did right at that moment, because of the need to get away, and her father probably knew it. He was pretty good at knowing what a person meant, even when they didn't quite say it. But she did go on to add, “And as far as Debra goes, that was over a long time ago.”

“I've wondered about that,” her father said. “Just kind of outgrew each other, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Audrey said. “Something like that.”

Having Debra as a best friend had begun soon after the Feltons moved into the old Mayberry house, just three houses down from the Abbotts, and Audrey had discovered that one of their kids was a girl who was just her age.

At the time Audrey had thought the fact that Debra's
family had moved into the Mayberry house was a good omen. As if the old brown-shingled house was somehow destined to provide her with special friends—and she went on thinking so for quite a while. It wasn't long before she and Debra were sitting next to each other every day on the school bus and then spending at least an hour or two together after school, either at the Abbotts' or the Feltons'. More often at the Abbotts', actually, after Debra's older siblings started spying on them and making fun of their games. Games like making fairy circles in the acacia grove and mixing magic potions, which, when secretly applied to people's hands and foreheads—people like Debra's big brother—were supposed to make them into enlightened people. Or at least a little easier to get along with.

In those days Debra had really liked their games. Not that she was good at thinking them up, but she was always very enthusiastic about Audrey's ideas. And when she told Audrey she had a big imagination, she usually, but not always, said it in a complimentary way.

But then things had begun to change. Even before Audrey's father got sick and she had to be at home every afternoon, Debra had started being less interested in the kinds of things she and Audrey had done. Little by little they'd pretty much stopped spending time together, even when they had a chance.

“Debra's too busy trying to be a hippie, I guess,” Audrey told her father now, and then, wanting to change
the subject, she added, “Let's talk about something else. Something more interesting.”

“All right. I vote for that,” her father said. “Let's see!” He turned his chair in a circle, looking around the room. “Something to make things a little more exciting? I know. We could let Sputnik out if you think you could round him up before your mother gets home. That's sure to liven things up a bit.”

It was a good idea, but a quick roundup plan would be necessary. Although Hannah Abbott claimed to be a bird lover like her mother, she had very little patience with pint-size parrot types who nibbled chunks out of the woodwork and pooped on the dining room table. At least not when she had just returned from work, tired and, more often than not, a little bit cranky.

Audrey headed for the cockatiel's cage, saying, “Oh, I can catch him, all right.” And to Sputnik himself, “If you won't go in when I tell you to I'll just have to get the butterfly net. Won't I?”

As his door opened, Sputnik shrieked a rude answer and, as always, went into orbit. Around the room he flew, squawking madly, shrieking as he hung upside down from the chandelier, then flying again and dipping down to barely miss their faces—Audrey's, John's, even Beowulf 's. It wasn't until he'd threatened to land on each of their heads several times that he settled for Beowulf 's, where he proceeded to strut up and down, dragging his wing tips
and whistling a tuneless, wordless something that managed to sound like a challenge.

For a while Beowulf, a natural-born pacifist, only sighed, grunted, closed his eyes, and pretended to go back to sleep. But Sputnik went on being typically aggressive, pecking Beowulf 's ears and screaming four-letter words, until the dog threw him off by shaking his head. After several attacks Beowulf 's patience wore out, and he began to growl and show his teeth every time his tormentor got anywhere near him.

This time the big dog's snarls were more convincingly ferocious than usual, and Audrey began to worry that he might really lose it. One bite from Beowulf and no more Sputnik, that was for sure. But when she asked her father if he thought that was a possibility, he only grinned.

“Don't worry,” he said. “He'd probably spit him out. Anything as mean as that crazy bird is sure to taste awful.”

The dog-and-bird show did make the time pass quickly, and it was getting dangerously close to seven o'clock when Audrey finally had to convince Sputnik to go home by threatening him with the butterfly net. Still squawking four-letter words, he swooped back into his cage just as Hannah's car came down the driveway.

It was a close call. It wouldn't have done for Sputnik to be on the loose when Hannah got home that particular day, because it had been an especially bad one. According
to Hannah, Mrs. Austin, her boss at the savings and loan, had been even meaner and more unreasonable than usual, which resulted in a worse-than-usual headache.

So a typical week came to an end, and then it was Saturday. With Hannah at home to look after John, it might have been possible to sneak up to the cave—if it hadn't been for the rain. The rain went on and on, but in the late afternoon Audrey went so far as to put on her mother's gardening boots and an old raincoat and start out up the path. However, she had gone only a few steps before she turned back, realizing there was no way she could make it all the way up the steep, rain-slick trail.

But Sunday morning was clear and warmer, and right after breakfast Audrey began to plan her getaway to the cave. Actually, it shouldn't be too difficult. On Saturdays and Sundays, Audrey often spent time alone either in her room or on one of the terraces when the weather was good. Time spent supposedly reading or doing homework, but more often working on her latest novel. So neither of her parents would worry if she disappeared for a while. But just to make sure, she was careful to set the stage.

Not long after lunch was over, she made it a point to spend a few minutes at the living room's bookshelves near where her father was reading while her mother did a crossword puzzle. After very obviously going over every bookshelf, she carefully chose
Jane Eyre
and
Great Expectations,
books she'd already read at least once, in case her parents
should, as they often did, want to discuss what she'd been reading. With the books held conspicuously under her arm, she crossed the room, took off down the hall toward her bedroom, turned back, and tiptoed toward the back of the house.

Out on the back porch she stashed the books on a shelf above the washing machine, between a box of detergent and a bottle of bleach, before starting up the brick steps that led to the highest terrace. Arriving there a little out of breath, she turned slowly in a circle, looking and listening. It was the same place where she'd been before, but now there was nothing to see but grass and stiff, silent bushes. She sat down and waited for quite a long time, but the silence continued. There was no movement among the leaves and no sound at all.

This meant she would have to make the decision all by herself: Should she go on to the cave or simply go back home? She hadn't come to any conclusion, at least not one she remembered making, but suddenly she was on her way, scrambling up the steep, slippery path that led across barren stretches of hillside and through groves of trees until, tired and breathless, she came to a stop at the vine-hung entrance to the cave.

No flight of blackbirds this time. Not even after she stepped closer and waved her arms. But there was something. A soft murmur of birdlike chatter and, as she moved nearer, the slightest shiver of motion among the green
leaves. As if the birds were there, hiding in the ivy but not bothering to fly away.

She was stepping closer, raising a hand to move a strand of vine, when suddenly she heard it. A series of strange noises were coming from inside the cave. Noises that didn't contain actual words but, at the same time, managed to sound a lot like an argument. A mixture of squeaks and rasps and squawks that certainly seemed to be saying something accusatory and argumentative. She paused, her mind wavering between concern and curiosity. Curiosity won. Pushing aside the curtain of vine, Audrey went in.

For a moment, just as before, her eyes were almost useless in the dim light, but her ears were working fine, and what they heard was a hushed moment of silence, followed by an avalanche of other sounds. An angry chorus of rasps and squeaks and squeals that for a moment seemed to come out of nowhere and everywhere. Once again Audrey began to see several pairs of round eyes in heart-shaped white faces, staring at her from a high ledge.

And then a creaky voice was saying, “Well, well. So you have come back to see us. I'm so glad.”

And there it was. Sitting, just as before, on the bundle of rugs and blankets was the caped and cloaked figure. Except that now Audrey could see a bit more clearly. Could see a pale oval that might be a face and a pair of round, unblinking black eyes.

As the noise level in the cave continued to rise, the
strange creature's face tipped upward and her voice became louder and more demanding. “All right, you rascals. All of you. Stop this nonsense. Be silent.” And suddenly it was.

“There! You see?” the creaky voice said. “There's no reason for such a fuss. And you're upsetting our guest.” And then to Audrey, “They know quite well they're not allowed to engage in any deviltry in my presence, yet they feel compelled to complain about one another. But they will compose themselves now.”

Audrey looked up to see the owls' round faces stop bobbing and quivering, and then farther up where the blanket of bats had become still and silent.

“So, my dear,” the woman said, gesturing toward the pirate furniture. “Do sit and we can have our little chat.”

N
O.” AUDREY SHOOK HER HEAD. SHE
hadn't come to chat. “I only came because…” She paused. She couldn't very well say that she'd come to be sure of what she'd seen, or thought she'd seen, before. “But I could sit for a minute,” she said instead. Pulling up one of the boxes, she sat down. “But I'm not going to—” She stopped. Or something stopped her.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she started again, but this time what she said was, “The doctor thinks my father is dying. He had a heart attack almost two years ago and now he has something called angina pectoris. It hurts him a lot, and the doctor wants him just to stay in bed all the time, but he gets up and sits in a chair sometimes. A wheelchair. But he can't work anymore. He used to be the editor of the newspaper and he taught journalism at Greendale College, but now he just…sits there.”

Almost without taking another breath, she went on.
“We live in this house my grandparents built, and my grandmother lived with us until she died. She always won prizes at the fair for the stuff she grew in her garden. My grandmother loved flowers and birds, especially ducks.”

“Especially ducks?” The creaky voice had another ripple to it. Almost like a giggle.

“Yes, especially ducks,” Audrey said slowly, thinking it was odd she hadn't thought of that strange coincidence before. “Well, one duck, anyway. A white duck who lived on the farm where my grandmother grew up. The duck was named Lily, and my grandma said it was as smart as most dogs, or even smarter, and whenever it saw my grandmother, it would try to lead her to a place where she could help it look for things it wanted to eat.”

Audrey stopped talking, gasped, and shook her head hard. What was she doing? Just what she'd promised herself she would never do. The gasp had hardly died away when her voice began again: “And my mother used to be famous too, for being beautiful. And she used to paint and write poetry and take care of our house and garden, but now she has to work in a place where she just keeps track of other people's money, and she has a mean boss and the work is hard and boring, and when she comes home she's too…” Her voice trailed away, and, just as before, as soon as she stopped, she felt mostly amazed, but angry, too. Mostly at herself, for doing just what she'd promised herself she wouldn't do, but also furious at the
weird creature who was somehow making her do it.

Audrey clamped her lips shut, raised her head, and stared right into the pale, round-eyed face, trying to make her own eyes say that she wasn't going to say anymore. Not a word more.

But the creature asked another question. This time it was only, “And you, my dear?”

And somehow Audrey was saying, at least a voice that seemed to come from some deep part of her was saying, “And I have to come home early from school every afternoon to be with my father, and…and I don't mind at all—at least I don't most of the time. But I can't see my friends, except at school, or go anywhere with them, and my friend Debra spends all her time with other people now and doesn't even phone me anymore and…”

She wanted to stop. She desperately wanted to, but she might not have, even then, except now the strange creature was talking again, and this time it was saying, “I see. Yes, yes. I see. I do understand.”

“No, you don't,” Audrey said angrily, but along with the anger, there was another sensation that felt almost like relief. Like the way you feel when something you had to do, but didn't want to do, was finally over and done with. “But telling you all of that—all of that stuff—isn't why I came here. I only came because I wondered if…That is, I've been wondering if I could bring you something.” It really was a small part of what she'd been planning, but
as soon as she said it, she knew it was true and that she meant what she said.

“Something?” The hooded head tipped to one side questioningly.

“Yes. Something to eat, maybe. Something from our garden. I mean, do you have enough to eat?” She glanced around, at the bare table and empty boxes, then at the caped and shapeless figure who still seemed to hover at the edge of darkness. “Or else maybe a blanket or something?”

The hooded head nodded slowly as the rusty voice said, “Don't concern yourself, my dear. I have everything I need. But it was good of you to want to help.” The creature was leaning forward now, the white face becoming almost visible, almost familiar, certainly womanlike. “So good of you, my dear.”

Audrey backed away, feeling uneasy about what she might be going to say next. “I think I'd better go now.” She glanced at her watch. “Yes. I have to go. It's late.”

Still nodding, the woman said, “Yes. Perhaps you should go, but wait a moment.” The nodding stopped, then began again. “Yes, yes. I know now. Just the right thing.”

Turning to one side, she seemed to be searching for something either in the pile of rags she was sitting on or perhaps in a pocket of her long, flowing cloak. The searching went on for several seconds before she said, “Aha! Here, my dear. This is for you.”

The old woman's hand, or something a little bit like a
hand, was reaching out again, and Audrey's hand slowly and uncertainly moved toward it until her fingers touched, not fingers, but a feathery softness and, in its midst, a hard round object. And then there in the center of Audrey's palm was a small metal rod that came to a point on one end like a…Yes, it was a pen. An old, perhaps ancient, pen made out of a dark, almost rust-colored metal and covered with strange marks and scratches. Except that ancient pens weren't ballpoints, and this one seemed to have that kind of tip.

Audrey was still examining the pen as the quavery voice began saying something unintelligible. A chantlike flow of syllables that rose and fell and rose again, then became louder and more clear. “For you, my dear. Use it wisely and to good purpose.” The hooded head seemed to be nodding now as it faded away into the deeper shadow. “But I do think you must go now. Go back to your people. And remember—wisely and to good purpose.”

At that moment several things began to happen. A rasping hiss drifted down from the ledge at the back of the cave, immediately followed by a mutter of soft squeaks. The white faces of the owls were bobbing up and down again, and overhead the blanket of bats was once again astir. The noises grew in volume until a harsh, scolding squawk, almost a quack, cut them off. In the silence that followed, Audrey headed toward the light.

She had passed the pirates' saggy table and one of the
makeshift chairs, and was reaching out to push aside the veil of vine when the squawking, quacking sound came again. But closer now, and not so harsh and demanding. Suddenly there it was. From just outside the cave entrance, the white duck was staring at Audrey, first with one black eye and then the other. She whispered, “Good-bye.” Turning it into a question, she repeated, “Good-bye, duck?” The duck's sleek oval head bobbed up and down as if in reply before it turned away and disappeared behind the curtain of vine. And then Audrey was on her way down the hill, clutching the pen in her right hand.

It wasn't until she had almost reached the beginning of the Elgin property that she once again glanced at her watch and realized that she had been gone a long time. A much longer time than she had planned on when she sneaked out the back door.

She hurried on, sliding and scrambling on the steepest places and, on passing the border of saplings, scampering down the flights of stairs that led from one terrace to the next. On reaching the back door, she scarcely had time to put the pen in her pocket and pick up
Jane Eyre
and
Great Expectations
before the kitchen door opened and Hannah Abbott said, “Audrey. Where on earth have you been? I've been calling and calling.”

“I didn't hear you,” Audrey gasped breathlessly. “I was just…” She motioned vaguely toward the terraces and the hillside beyond. “Up where I go to read sometimes.”

“To read?” The suspicious edge was there again as her mother's eyes turned toward the shelf where Audrey had left the books. Had she noticed that the books had been there the whole time Audrey was gone? She didn't say so. But her eyes were hinting something of the sort.

“Well, I
was
planning to read, but then I changed my mind and just went for a walk.” She motioned again. “A long walk up the hill.”

“I see. It must have been a long walk.” Hannah Abbott wiped her hands on her apron, and as she turned away, she said, “I'm going to start dinner as soon as I finish the ironing. You're just in time to shell the peas.”

Inside the kitchen, Audrey returned her father's grin and accepted a sloppy greeting from Beowulf before she started in on the peas. And it was that very evening, only a few minutes later, sitting right there at the kitchen table, when she suddenly found herself saying, “There's an old woman living in that cave where the Mayberry kids used to play.”

And then her parents were agreeing that something had to be done about it, and her mother was saying she would call the police as soon as she finished ironing her blouse.

And that was only the beginning.